Return
by LelliieTheSnake
Summary: Post-Reichenbach Johnlock reunion. A bit longer now than I was initially anticipating. Pure self-indulgence of my imagination. I do not know how long this will be. Sorry. Also WARNING - BADLY WRITTEN SEX  chapter 5 onwards
1. Chapter 1

"I had such a great time! Do you want to go out again next week?"

John bit his lip. Jess was so nice, so lovely, and she'd be a great person to move his life on with. The decision hung in the air in front of him, he knew full well at some point he needed to take the opportunity to move on. But not now.

"I… Uh, I'm sorry but I don't think I can, it's not you, I just… I can't."

John turned and walked away. He felt the anger and bitterness well up inside him and he walked for miles across London towards 221B, trying to wear it out, exhaust himself. It wouldn't work though because it never worked and every time he was left with the same regrets running through his head. He walked until he felt dizzy and sore and once he reached the flat he crashed on the sofa. _Why_, he thought. _Why can't I move past this? The Psychiatrist said this is a natural part of mourning, but why is it lasting so long? _His gaze fell once again on the harmless armchair across the room. That harmless, square armchair that had once held the most brilliant man he'd ever known. A man who could curl up on that chair with his arms round his knees whilst his brain performed near miracles. A Man who's brilliant mind could save whole countries, save hundreds of lives and cure a broken ex-army doctor of horrors he hadn't realised he was suffering from. But it was over nine months since that tall, exquisite genius had sat in that chair, insulting the television and refusing to buy milk.

John choked up a sob and the tears started again. He'd hoped every day for months that maybe, just maybe tonight he could fall asleep without losing control and then every night he failed. He'd been told multiple times that the regret would fade. He'd been told multiple times to let go, expel his sorrow and move on. He'd been told to go out on dates, find friends, find people to comfort and console him and help him move his life on. Nobody understood why it was taking him so long to get over the most basic first stages of mourning, after all it was only his flatmate. _My flatmate, my colleague, my partner in solving crimes, my best friend, my…_

But he could never find an end to that sentence.

* * *

><p>When John woke the next day London was covered in a thick frost. He treated four people who had fallen on the ice at the surgery and two pensioners who has pneumonia, but overall it was a light day and Sarah let him home early. On his way home, like every other day, he contemplated going out and about and finding something interesting to do with his evening; like every other evening he ended up deciding against going out. Opening the front door, hanging his coat and heading up the stairs, he froze. The door to his flat was ajar. This in itself wasn't very strange as Mrs Hudson usually helped with cleaning but she was away visiting her sister.<p>

"Mrs Hudson? Are you back early?" He called tentatively. He heard something being knocked over upstairs but there was no reply, whoever was there obviously didn't want to be discovered. _They knew I was at work, they knew I was out of the house. It must be someone who knows me. Someone who I know_. His army training kicked in for the first time in months and he was alert, climbing slowly up the stairs. _Shit, why is my gun upstairs in the wardrobe_. He opened the door tentatively but there was nobody there. An empty flat but with an open window. He scanned round, nothing appeared to be particularly out of place, nothing appeared to have been taken.

But he still needed to check everywhere. John slowly climbed the stairs to his bedroom, throwing the door open. In this room, there was a difference. The shoes he'd had sitting just inside the door had been kicked out of line as if someone had tripped over them. Secondly, the bed covers were ruffled, as if someone had lain on top of them, looking closely confirmed it, he could still see the indent in the middle of the bed. John didn't know what to make of this intrusion into his privacy, his initial thoughts flew to _at least they didn't take anything of value_.

But then he glanced over at his other bedside table. Sherlock had never been very sentimental and didn't appreciate stopping for photographs, but John had managed to get just one. One photograph of himself and Sherlock one evening at Angelo's, sitting smiling, which he proceeded to take home and frame next to his bed. But now he looked over at the innocent little silver frame and another sob broke in his chest, the frame was empty.

John's heart stopped. It was his only personal photo of the two of them when they'd been smiling and having fun and not through a newspaper in mid-case-madness. He felt panic rising inside him at the loss of this little printed piece of paper. The impact of the evening as a whole washed over him. He had been nervous when he saw that the door was open, heard the knock of the intruded kicking his shoes. He had switched straight to soldier mode to check for danger. Looking back this surprised him, it was so long since he'd had to worry about any danger in his life. So long since he'd had to worry about personal safety, running across London with his flatmate, his colleague, his best friend, his…

_Enough reflection, it's time for tea _he decided, and proceeded to go downstairs and distract himself with bad television, anything to take his mind off the missing picture. _Maybe this is a sign I need to move on_ he thought. _If I'm getting overly sentimental at some print maybe it's finally time to let go. _But even then he didn't believe he'd move on any faster. It took a while to calm down completely, but by the time he dragged himself to bed he'd managed to dispel the panic and it had just blended into the aching sadness that hadn't left his chest for the past nine months.

Lying in bed, he reached over to turn the light off and paused. He grabbed the empty frame and inspected it. Flipping it over, he saw a slip of white in the back cover. Pulling, out came a little piece of paper and on it, in handwriting he'd recognise even if it had been nine years, were four words. Four words and two letters.

_I'm so sorry John - SH_

John didn't sleep that night. He was dominated by a constant string of words and emotions running on repeat through his head. The paper in the frame was new, he was sure of that. Numerous times he'd picked up and held the photograph whilst mourning, numerous times he'd cried himself to sleep looking at the image of his flatmate, his colleague, his best friend, his…

Which means the paper must have been placed there when he had the break in. Which means that whoever broke in must have known Sherlock. However, why had the message in Sherlock's handwriting had been left for nine months before being brought to him? John wondered about the content of the message itself. He knew that Sherlock had cared about him, but never really to what extent. Sherlock had never been emotional, he just didn't waste brain space to things that weren't productive in crime solving. Besides, if he really cared about John he wouldn't have gone and committed fucking suicide would he? Leaving John to deal with it. John can't help but feel that this entire suicide is so fucking selfish.

But then again, as he had stood there, watching Sherlock up on the roof, he got the distinct impression that Sherlock was hiding something, both factually and emotionally. The sound of Sherlock's voice cracking as he'd struggled to hide emotions foreign to him made John hope deep down that Sherlock had cared and was just unable to express it.

But he had still left, left John as a ruin of a life, missing the one person who had understood him. There was no trouble for Sherlock now, just sat dead a dying in the ground. _Sleep well Sherlock, you've ruined me forever. _And it was true, once he was swept up into the world of Sherlock Holmes John could not see his life ending another way. The loss of Sherlock had seemed just impossible, there was no way he'd ever manage to move on. So John had given in, spent the past nine months dangling in limbo and just dreaming that Sherlock was watching him from somewhere.

_But_, he wondered, _who left the message? _The ideas teased round his head. The only other person close to Sherlock was Mycroft and, well, that wouldn't have worked. Mycroft had been just as shocked at Sherlock's death as John had, and besides, Mycroft would not have laid in John's bed. _My bed! I can't think of anyone connected with Sherlock who would have just decided it was time for a nap. In fact the only people who felt comfortable sleeping in this house surrounded by all the body parts and test tubes were me and Sherlock himself. _John's breath caught. _Maybe…? But no. He's dead. He's dead and the man you knew would never leave you like this for this long. No matter how I look at things I can't understand this. John Hamish Watson you're fucked. Pull yourself together._

However, despite convincing himself that it couldn't possibly have been a dead man that had left him a physical piece of paper, a small part of him still hoped. Still hoped desperately that the beautiful impressive figure of his flatmate would one day stride though the front door again.

* * *

><p>It was a few days before John could bring himself to leave the house. Even then it was just for basic shopping. Thank god work was light at the surgery or he wouldn't have managed it. Strangely enough he had adopted Sherlock's habit of not caring about money, the work he did was just as a reason to leave the house, not because he needed to earn a living. In fact he hardly ever worked enough to pay the most basic bills, but somehow an extra two thousand pounds appeared in his account every month. Though hating him deeply for selling out his brother's secrets John appreciated that Mycroft had thought to set him up. <em>Probably his way of apologising. <em>

Walking down to Tesco John paid more attention to the world around him than he had in months. Everything was so heart-achingly boring. Now he was out and about John longed for adventure, to go around and spent time on the edge as he had before with Sherlock. He watched the world around him thoroughly, imagining criminals following him, hiding behind those trees or that post box or round the side of that shop-

And that's when he saw it, a tall shadow down the alley between a café and a post office, a tall figure with dark hair and a dark coat. He panicked, his heart making hopes he knew logically it shouldn't. Realising he'd frozen John turned and walked straight towards it, and the figure turned and ran. By the time he got to the alley the figure had well and truly disappeared. _He knew who I was_ John realised. _He knew who I was and he didn't want me to see him. But who is he? _John's heart leapt again at the thought. _He's dead, stop it, it can't be possible, and even if it was he would come to see you, he wouldn't run away_. John fell against the wall, exhaling and trying to calm himself. At that point his head slumped forward, eyes closed. You need to get a Grip you idiot. After a few more minutes of calm breathing John opened his eyes, and there on the floor in front of him was another little piece of paper.

_Not here, not now. Meet me at home - SH_

* * *

><p>John wasn't sure how he managed to walk back to 221B. He remembered at one point telling his feet to move but still felt surprised when he arrived at the door in a very short amount of time. Fear eclipsed everything else in his head, and his head was rather full. All of the doubts and the maybes, the seeing figures around street corners, the suspicions he'd dismissed as stupid over the past few months had all arisen again on his walk home. But now he stopped, his breath catching as he stared at his door number. That innocent collection of numbers and letters could behind it contain the man who had left him a shadow of his former self.<p>

_Pull yourself together, it's your own flat_!

John thought about Sherlock's statement. "Meet me at home". _What right does he have to call it his own home again? I'm the one who's been living in it, cooking in it, cleaning in it for the past nine months_.

The anger that rose in his chest from that statement gave him the strength to open the door, but even as he opened it, the voice in the back of his head was saying _but it was only you that did the cooking and cleaning when he lived here too._

The momentum of his anger took him to the top of the stairs. The door to Sherlock's bedroom was open. When Sherlock had jumped (_I can't bring myself to say "died" now, _John thought_, I'm too full of hope_) all of Sherlock's belongings had been taken into Sherlock's room and the door locked. Mrs Hudson sometimes went in there to dust but John had not seen the inside of the room since Sherlock… well, that was the issue now, was he really dead or not? John steeled himself and walked through into the living room, not sure what to expect.

And there he was. That dark figure silhouetted in the window, still in long coat and scarf, looking out into the street but tense all over listening, waiting, judging John's reaction. That dark, brilliant, genius leant casually up against the window as if nothing had ever been wrong, waiting to see how his former best friend would take this revelation.

Strangely enough, John himself was waiting for the same thing. His mind froze and he stood there, breathing heavily, waiting to judge his own actions. Part of him wanted to turn around and walk back out again, to dismiss this all as a sick dream and resign himself to living alone again, because this couldn't possibly be real.

The other overwhelming urge in his head was to touch Sherlock to verify that he was real. Part of him wanted to go and put a hand carefully on Sherlock's arm to try and get him to react, to speak. Part of him wanted to go over there and punch that git, make him hurt for making John suffer. Another, overwhelmingly strong part of John's brain wanted the opposite of this, to take Sherlock into his arms and hold on, to never let him go, to never allow him to leave John again.

And then, Sherlock turned round. His face was gaunt and thin, his skin was extra pale and stretched, he looked like he hadn't eaten or slept for weeks. And his eyes. They looked desperate, pleading and weak. Sherlock seemed a shadow of his former self, he seemed to be suffering just as much as John. This combination of physical weakness and recognised despair made John think automatically, _he needs a doctor_.

And as if reading his mind, Sherlock took three strides across the room to come and stand up in front of him, he looked John in the eye and said almost helplessly "I need you".

Their eyes locked for a moment and then suddenly the space between them didn't exist. Sherlock pushed them both a step back against the wall and then bent down, mouth crushing onto John's, a kiss full of urgency and longing, full of apologies and desperation to be accepted. The feel of Sherlock, the smell of him was utterly overwhelming and John just let him carry on, unable to react, to push away or pull into it, this was all too much.

After a few moments Sherlock broke off, looking scared at the lack of reaction.

"I just… I'm sorry, I needed you, I've missed you". Sherlock looked into his eyes again. "Give me something John, after all this time this is killing me."

That was enough to kick-start John's brain again.

"I'm sorry, _me_, killing _you_?" He was angry, angry like never before at Sherlock casually throwing out a statement like that. "What sort of sick fucking joke is that supposed to be Sherlock? Have you not seen what you've done to me? What the fuck made you think you could just walk out and leave me without anything? Oh but of course, you know exactly what this has done to me, because you've been watching me haven't you?" It all became maddeningly clear in John's head. "Breaking in and taking my things and watching me from street corners and not giving enough of a damn to come and tell me you were alive! You _knew_ I was suffering."

"I…", Sherlock paused, taking a step back and trying to compose himself. He seemed to be resisting the urge to make a particularly Sherlock comment. "I couldn't, staying away from you protected you. Still, I confess I don't understand why this has dominated your life so much."

"You don't understa- SHERLOCK, YOU MADE ME WATCH YOU PLUNGE OFF A BUILDING. I HAD TO LOOK AT THE BODY OF MY PARTNER LYING CRACKED AND BROKEN ON THE GROUND."

The world span and John's legs gave way, incoherent babble spouting from his mouth as mental control slipped away, he slid down the wall and sat on the ground, the tears starting to leak through. Sherlock moved as if to touch him and John froze.

"Don't you dare lay your hand on me right now."

"John let me move you onto the sofa."

"Don't. You. Dare."

And at that point John lost it completely. He broke down and cried, cried like a child as all the fears and sadness of the past nine months took over him. He didn't know how long he sat there, it could have been ten minutes or over an hour, he just sat and let it all bleed out until he was too weak to keep his eyes open. The part of John self conscious about breaking down had long gone and he didn't try to hide at all, too far gone to give a damn what Sherlock would think. Sherlock sat there the entire time and just watched him, not moving any closer or further away, not trying to talk at all, just sitting and waiting.

When the tears finally stopped, John felt on the verge of collapse. Despite looking so weak himself, Sherlock scooped an arm round him with surprising strength and swung him round onto the sofa, lying him down so he was facing out into the room. He then disappeared, returning in what seemed next to no time. He had taken off his coat and scarf and was carrying a cup of tea in one hand and his violin case from his bedroom in the other hand. He placed the tea down clearly where John could see it and went and stood by the window, pulled his violin out and started playing notes he knows John found calming.

The warm familiar notes allowed John be gain more control of his breathing and he slowly pulled himself up, reaching for a tissue to wipe his face and then reaching for the tea. It was warm and soothing and he sat in silence until it was finished, at which point Sherlock drew out one last exquisite note and placed his violin down, coming to sit next to John on the sofa. He had managed to calm John down sufficiently and now they both knew it was time to talk.

"Where do you want to start?"

"I, uh… Why Sherlock?"

"I had to." Sherlock struggled to keep the strain from his voice "Moriaty had snipers trained on you, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson, the only want to stop them shooting was to jump."

John took a deep breath, steadying himself for the amount of information he knew he would receive. "So, how come you didn't come back straight away?"

"Surely you realise John that Moriaty had a vast and wide criminal web, I couldn't just leave that whole. I've spent the past nine months breaking down his organisation."

"But why couldn't you tell me? Why did I have to be left in the dark?" John couldn't quite hid the hurt from his voice.

"Because I was sure they'd be watching you." Sherlock's eyes and expression softened as he reached forwards and put his hand on John's shoulder. "If you were suddenly happy again they'd become suspicious that I might not have died and it might have put you in danger again. I needed to wait until the entire web was disbanded before I could come back. I wouldn't ever risk you."

"And now the web has been totally shut down?" John asked tentatively, dismissing the anger that had spiked in him again at Sherlock's assumption that his return would make John happy (Though deep down they both knew it was true, John just didn't want this man suddenly claiming emotional responsibility for him).

"Yes, it's all gone. Meaning I'm here to stay" John's expression didn't soften and Sherlock bit his tongue, scared of having overstepped the line by assuming welcome return so openly. "I mean, if you want me to come back. I know this has been hard on you and if you're angry then I won't mind."

"Of course I want you back Sherlock." He stalled, then looked round at Sherlock again, "Are you sure this is real and I'm not imagining you?"

Sherlock chuckled, a deep, familiar rumble that sent shivers up John's back. "Of course I'm real."

"Can I, can I touch you, just to make sure?"

Sherlock smiled and John took his hand, shuffling closer to him across the sofa. His hand reached up and touched Sherlock's face, stroking over his cheekbones with a closeness that he would never have risked before the fall. Sherlock sighed and pulled John down as he swung their legs up, so that John lay cuddled up to Sherlock's chest.

After a while laying there in comfortable silence, Sherlock cleared his throat, his speech rumbling through his chest into John as he spoke.

"Earlier on, you referred to me as your partner."

John froze, his mind reeling. He had hoped dearly Sherlock wouldn't have noticed, but he should have known better. All sorts of lies ran through his head, but in the end he chose the explanation he'd least expected to use, the truth.

"Well to a large extent you were. We worked together on cases, we lived together, we spent all our time together. You were my colleague, my flatmate, my best friend, my partner." He smiled internally. That works.

"But we were never sexual."

John's breath caught at the word, but he carried on. "We didn't need to be. Well, I say were. Was I dreaming or not, when I came through that door?"

"Ah, I…" Sherlock composed himself. "I apologise for overstepping your boundaries John, after seeing how angry it made you I am sorry for trying to invade your privacy. I put my own personal need for you in front of your needs."

"It wasn't the kiss that made me angry." John shuffled so he was lying practically on top of Sherlock, looking him in the face. "It was the being left part that made me angry."

"So, you didn't mind?" Sherlock was trying to look casual, but John was against his chest and could feel his heart racing.

"After being away from you so long? Not at all." He looked into Sherlock's eyes again, bringing their faces closer together. "Not, one bit".

The second kiss was entirely different from the first one. It was soft and gentle, taking things slowly. It seemed to confirm some sort of understanding between them, that they didn't need to hurry or rush. Acceptance blossomed in John's chest as he gently moved to part his lips. He's back. _He's really back and I'm not imagining it. And it wasn't from spite, he did it to protect me. Sentiment._ He smiled against Sherlock's mouth and Sherlock pulled back, his face puzzled.

"What?"

"Nothing, just… welcome home."


	2. Chapter 2

**Part 2**

The rest of the day was long and difficult. John had barely registered that Sherlock was back and then he was suddenly surrounded by Sherlock's belongings again as Sherlock unpacked, making him feel overwhelmed. As well as this there were the uncomfortable meetings with others. After Mrs Hudson's shouts had died down and Mycroft had given up and left, John was left so tired and emotionally drained he could hardly stand. Sherlock, though he spent most of the day unpacking, seemed unusually perceptive of John's mood and always tried to divert things away or quiet them down when they became too much for his best friend, though it was always subtle. It seemed as if Sherlock was avoiding direct confrontation. Eventually he swallowed his pride and tried to speak to John about it.

"You're exhausted and still showing signs of having been in shock. I think you need comforting, though, I confess," he shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other, "I don't feel I'm entirely capable of providing that."

"I appreciate the concern Sherlock, I do. But this morning was an age away and I think I just need sleep."

"Well, do you want me to take you to bed?"

John's breath hitched in his throat at the thought of it, in shock that Sherlock had openly suggested such a thing. Sherlock seemed to read it in his face and felt a sliver of panic.

"No, John, I was talking literally, do you want me to come upstairs with you as you get ready for bed?" he blurted out, more quickly than usual. When John didn't reply straight away, he carried on. "Okay, no, if you don't want me to it's fine-"

"Actually," John's voice was steady, "I think I'd rather enjoy it if you did."

They caught eye contact and Sherlock smiled, reaching forwards and taking John's hand to lead him upstairs. John kicked off his shoes and jumper and lay down on his bed, too tired to change. He gestured beside him with a nod of his head and Sherlock mirrored his actions, letting his sharp jacket fall to the floor and placing himself neatly on the bed next to John, wondering how this was supposed to work. _Is this comforting, laying on the bed next to each other? There should be more to it_. After a moment John let out an amused sigh.

"Come here you daft git." He shuffled over and leant up against Sherlock's side. Sherlock reached to turn off the light and then instinctively moved his arm around John and they shuffled until it was comfortable. It was cosy and more intimate than they ever would have tried being before, but it just felt right. After a while John's breathing fell into the steady rhythm of one firmly asleep and after while longer started snoring gently.

Sherlock's thoughts as he lay there were mixed. He thought about how he must have affected John throughout his absence, having seen it but not really thought about it deeply before today. He wondered how he would make it up to John in the future, the things he would do and the things he would say. He thought about how comfortable it was to be back, and how both relaxed and intimate it felt to be lying here with the man who had so easily taken him back. _Sure he had a hard day today but there was every chance John could have rejected having me back. More than that he accepted me in openly, and we broke physical boundaries today further than ever before_. Sherlock smiled at John's words from earlier on in the day. "Not at all." He didn't mind at all that Sherlock had given into personal desire and kissed him. _I like being physically close to him_, Sherlock reflected, _it's easier than trying to convey my care in words, and well, it feels good_. He smiled and looked down at John, relaxed and asleep against his chest, he opened his mouth to a whisper: "If you let me, I'll definitely make it up to you."

o0o

John stirred, feeling heavy from a long night's sleep. He vaguely registered that it was months since he'd had such a good night's sleep, and at the same time his memories from the day before drifted forwards the reality of his surroundings registered. He felt the weight of another body against his back, the hand curled around to rest across his hip, the lips barely brushing against the back of his neck. He registered a warm musty smell that had been absent for months surrounding him in a way that made his head swim. John's eyes flew open and he gazed at the clock, it was 10 am. Christ. He tensed up and made to move but a long and surprisingly strong arm curled round and held him tight.

"John," Sherlock's voice was heavy with sleep, "Good morning."

"Sherlock?"

"Well who else would it be?"

"I don't know." He gave a sigh and relaxed back "To be fair until yesterday you were dead."

"Mmph" Sherlock grumbled and pulled him tight into a hug, then released him and stretched out like a cat, shaking off the last remnants of sleep.

John felt cold without Sherlock around him and realised just how normal it already felt to have Sherlock around him, just after one night. Not _even 24 hours since he's returned and I already don't want to let go_. John sighed and sat up, running a hand through his ruffled hair and made a move, still in his clothes from the day before. Sherlock left and went downstairs, and John registered Sherlock was in his Pyjamas, meaning he'd got up at some point and come back. John smiled at the thought of Sherlock coming back to bed with him. _He'd never normally go back to bed after getting up. It shows he needs me too_.

John went for a long soak in the shower and by the time he got dressed and downstairs again he was greeted by the sight of Sherlock and a cup of tea.

"I made you tea." Sherlock said, sounding very matter of fact. To anyone else this might sound detached but John knew there was more to it, an apology.

"Thank you." He smiled up at Sherlock and Sherlock smiled back. They sat around the table in comfortable silence for a while, just enjoying the moment. When he'd drained his cup John spoke up.

"So."

"So what?"

"So what shall we do today? Do we just carry on as if nothing ever happened?"

"Well what do you think we should do today?" Sherlock frowned.

"I really have no idea." he said, sighing again, "What did you want to do?"

"I had planned to get some experiments going and then go over to Scotland Yard, see what they're working on at the moment." He looked at John's still troubled face. "But if you want to do something else, we'll do that. What do you need?"

John looked up at him, registering the obvious concern in Sherlock's face. He felt like he was drowning in it, Sherlock's sudden closeness and concern. It was nice, and he enjoyed it, but it was all a bit much. _Am I ever going to adjust_?

"I think I need some fresh air. Feel free to experiment, I'm going for a walk to the shops."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but didn't expand on it. "Okay, I will. But be aware there'll be limited space in the fridge once you get back." John smiled as he picked up his coat, wondering how on earth someone can come to miss body parts in the fridge.

"I'll be back later!" He called, heading out into the fresh morning air, it was chilly and he sped up as he walked down to the shops. The air helped clear his head and by the time he'd left the shops and was on his way home John felt a calm settle over him, he knew that it was time for life to return to normal. Sure there would be difficulties but Sherlock was back and he was allowed to be happy about that. John reflected on the physical closeness he'd experienced with Sherlock over the past 24 hours and a spasm of doubt flitted through his mind. He knew very well that Sherlock could be difficult and this could just be a phase. Sherlock never did anything by halves and his happiness at being back home was sure to be just as over-the-top as everything else he did, but John was scared that the excitement would pass, and then what? John never denied to himself that he found Sherlock as attractive as he was brilliant but he'd managed to get past that, build walls and move on. _Those walls have taken a hit already. If I let them down and indulge only to have Sherlock move past this then I'm going to be left even more broken_, he thought. _I do love him, he shapes my life, but I don't want to expose my heart and find him incapable of loving me back, or worse, reciprocating love but getting bored and moving on_. That was the biggest issue to John, the chance of having his love acknowledged and returned, to be given a chance, but have it withdrawn. Physical relationships held a different niche to that, they could shag all day long but if Sherlock wasn't capable of being with John indefinitely then he was just going to end up feeling more heartbroken than ever.

_Christ, I'm like a teenage girl_. He turned the corner, trying to shake away the thought when shiny black car pulled up alongside him. As soon as the driver got up to open the door John cut in.

"Tell Mycroft he can piss off." And John simply walked away.

o0o

Despite only doing a relatively small shop by the time John got back Sherlock had been to St. Barts and returned, having collected all the equipment he owned before it was given back to the hospital. John had to navigate his way around glass to put the shopping away. He was just finishing when Sherlock wandered into the kitchen, mind obviously elsewhere as he mouthed and muttered to himself about chemicals. He moved across the kitchen, placing his hand at John's lower back as he moved past him, just for a moment. John felt a jolt down his spine at the physical contact. Sherlock seemed to snap out of science-land at the hitch in John's breath and looked down at him, head tilting as he observed every detail of the side of John's face that was visible. As he watched John turned his head away but his breathing quickened and Sherlock was pretty sure his pulse had increased, first at the contact and then at noticing Sherlock noticing his reaction to the contact. _He's turned on by physical contact with me, but feels self-conscious or doubtful about it_. It only lasted a split second and then John's composure returned, he picked up the newspaper and walked towards the living-room acting as if nothing had happened.

"So what, did they just let you take your stuff back then?" He called, sitting himself down in his armchair, opening the newspaper.

"Sort of."

"What does that mean?"

"They said no and I walked to the storage cupboard where it was being kept and took it anyway."

"I bet they loved having you back." John paused, "How did people react?"

"Most of them expressed some surprise to start with but then I carried on being me and they ceased to express anything but annoyance."

John laughed, "I can imagine it. Not that you have any friends at the hospital, bar of course Molly…" John trailed off, then looked round to Sherlock, worry in his face. "Sherlock, does Molly know you're back yet?"

"No, why?" Though Sherlock knew exactly what John was going to say in return. He walked into the living room.

"She was so upset after you left Sherlock. She cared about you more than you ever acknowledged. Blimey, this is going to be hard on her, she would hardly speak to me after… after you fell. I think it really got to her."

Sherlock sat down and, despite himself, felt touched by John's concern for Molly, he didn't think they'd ever been particularly close. The other emotion that washed through him was guilt, how was he supposed to tell John that Molly had helped him? He couldn't do it without risking John feeling betrayed and after being so close to John in the past few days Sherlock couldn't bear the thought of doing that to him. "When we do meet I'll be nice."

John looked at him pointedly.

"What! I do have the capability to "turn on the charm", I just choose not to most of the time."

"And god knows when you do Molly is usually on the receiving end so you can get something out of her. Be sincere and apologise for the deception. And don't try to manipulate her, she'll appreciate that." He across at Sherlock, no room for discussion in his glare.

"Okay. Even if it does mean not getting into the morgue for weeks." And Sherlock meant it. This was obviously important to John and he didn't want to upset him, still feeling guilty for the Molly deception.

John blinked, obviously having expected argument, but he didn't comment, just went back to reading the paper in peace. Sherlock returned to thoughts of that latest experiment he had started.

After a while John's phone rang. He pulled it out, seeing Lestrade's number for the first time in months. They had kept in contact, but as John had got worse contact had fallen apart. He shot a brief glance at Sherlock and answered.

"Greg, how are you?"

"_I'm good thanks. A little confused actually, one of the girls came back from the hospital swearing that, uh,-_"

"That the ghost of Sherlock Holmes had appeared?"

There was a brief silence on the other end of the phone. John glanced at Sherlock who was watching him speak, his face unreadable. Lestrade spoke.

"_So it's true then_." The strain was evident in his voice.

"Yes. Really."

"_How long has he been, I mean, when did he come back?"_

"Yesterday morning. And believe me, I'm still struggling to take it in myself."

"_Yes, well. He gave everyone a bloody shock, punch him for me will you? Then and only then tell him he's welcome back at the Yard whenever he wants to return. I presume he will want to return?"_

"Yeah, he was talking about it earlier on, I have no doubt you'll be seeing him again soon." (Sherlock gave him a nod from the other chair)

"_Good, my perfect record has taken a hit without him_." Lestrade took a deep breath. "_Listen John, are you okay? Having him back and all this, so suddenly?" _There was genuine care in his voice.

John closed his eyes. "I'm getting there. It is a lot to take in but I will get there." He opened his eyes and caught eye contact with a worried looking Sherlock, who he smiled at fondly. "It just might take me a while." He addressed it to both of them.

"_Okay mate. You're welcome to join me for a pint whenever, yeah?"_

John smiled again. "You know if things get too much, I might just take you up on that offer."

"_Good, well. I'll be seeing you soon then_?"

"Probably."

"_Okay, bye_."

"Bye." And he put the phone down. Sherlock tilted his head to the side, thinking, then opened his mouth to speak.

"What did he suggest you do to me then?"

"Punch you. Then tell you you're welcome back at the yard whenever."

Sherlock's face broke into a wide smile. "Skip the former, I think that's rather a good idea."

o0o

Sherlock returned an hour later with a box of case files. He put them down on the coffee table and immediately began sorting through them, putting individual cases in separate piles all over the floor, muttering to himself. John came in a with a cup of tea and sat on the sofa while Sherlock worked. After a few moments Sherlock noticed John on the sofa, having not registered when he'd come in.

"Unsolved cases from while I was away. I told Lestrade I'd work on the interesting ones." He explained, shuffling through a file.

"Hmm. It feels nice to have you back working."

Sherlock stopped and looked up at him, genuine curiosity in his eyes. "Even when I'm completely ignoring you?"

"Even then." John reached over for the remote and put the television on. "I assume if you can zone me out you can zone this out too?" he said, gesturing at the TV.

"I'm entirely capable, feel free." So John sat back and let the crap telly numb his mind, a warm feeling in his chest as Sherlock muttered to himself. After a while Sherlock came and sat next to him on the sofa, reading his way through a thick wad of notes, frowning at them occasionally. He shifted positions several times as he read. Then, deciding it would be most comfortable, he lay out on the sofa, feet up in John's lap. John stiffened and then shifted slightly but carried on watching the TV, not commenting. Sherlock settled and stopped fidgeting, and within 15 minutes John found himself tracing lines around Sherlock's ankle with his fingers. He didn't do it consciously, his hands often wandered over his own leg or the arm of the sofa as his mind was occupied, and he put no thought into the smooth skin under his fingers.

Sherlock on the other hand did notice. He stopped reading and watched John's hand move, feeling the soft and ever so slightly ticklish fingers trace nonsensical patterns around his foot. His eyes moved up to John's face, watching him completely absorbed in truly awful storylines. _He's an enigma. He is blind to the world and kept entertained by the most boring things and yet he could never be boring to me_. Sherlock watched with fascination as the muscles in John's face twitched at the television plot.

Eventually John became aware of his scrutiny, his head snapped round to Sherlock watching him. He suddenly became aware of his hands moving over Sherlock's skin and looked at him again, a little flustered. "Do you want me to stop?"

Sherlock didn't break eye contact. "No." John relaxed and let his hands carry on moving, Sherlock abandoning the case file in his lap and closing his eyes, letting his head fall back. After a while John's hands became more solid, rubbing harder. Sherlock gave into the massage and let his body relax. While not overly sexual, sitting here on the sofa like this felt oddly sensual, and he hummed a little with pleasure. John's TV show finished and he turned it off with the remote, his hands then returned to Sherlock's feet. He reflected back on his feelings towards Sherlock and a shiver ran down his spine as Sherlock hummed again, deeper this time, the enjoyment evident all over his face. He intently explored around Sherlock's feet, finding the little areas that made him hum more when rubbed, enjoying seeing Sherlock feel the pleasure of it.

Sherlock himself had been surprised to feel John's attention focus wholly in him. When the TV had gone off he had wondered if it was time for the massage to end but John just carried on, exploring and pressing in all the right places. He hummed along, trying to show John how much he appreciated physical contact, and trying to empower John by making him see that he could make Sherlock relax and submit like this. After Sherlock dictating his life so much he thought it was only fair that John should feel some power over him. As things carried on however Sherlock realised that he really did find this pleasurable and when John pressed just the right spot on the inside of his arch his moth fell open and he moaned slightly. He opened his eyes to find John staring intently at his face. They carried on for a while longer, alternating between closing their eyes and staring at each other, and then John's touch eased off.

"My hands are getting tired." He apologised.

Sherlock just sighed and shifted, moving to stand up. John shifted with him, and they stood up, John stretched and yawned. They made their way up into John's bedroom, as they had the night before, and this time no invitation was necessary. They both stripped down into t-shirts and underwear and lay down in bed together, facing each other. Sherlock's hand rested in between them, clearly an invitation, and John took it, bringing their hands together.

John fell asleep to the feel of Sherlock's thumb rubbing over the back of his hand. Sherlock fell asleep staring at John.


	3. Chapter 3

**Part 3**

Guns. Flashing lights. Loud noises, bangs and explosions. The dust clouding his vision. The feel of concrete rough against his knees, cold metal in his hands. And then pain, hearing the screams of those around him, trying to find someone but getting lost in the dust, not seeing but hearing the scream of war all around him, stumbling endlessly, never being able to help.

And then the scene changes, instead of running through dust running towards the hospital, but still surrounded by the screams of his comrades. He froze and looked up. No time for conversation in a dream, he watched Sherlock plunge off the rooftop, shouting _no Sherlock, No, NO, SHERLOCK NO!_ as Sherlock fell, oddly elegantly, towards the ground, still with the sound of explosions all around. Sherlock hit the pavement with a sickening crunch as pain exploded across his shoulder, the bullet piercing straight through him.

o0o

It was around five in the morning when John started to tense in his sleep. Sherlock tried to soothe him by stroking his hand. It appeared to work for a bit but then the distress became clearer, John rolled a little, shifting, a frown across his face as muttering to himself. Eventually the words became audible, "No, Sherlock, no." And Sherlock's heart ached as he watched such a brilliant man suffer, at least partly because of him. He slid his hand up and cupped John's face, whispering "Shhh, it'll be okay, John, you're just dreaming." It didn't work and John's moans grew louder until he shouted out "NO!" and his eyes flew open, sitting up, gasping for air, clutching his shoulder over his scar. He looked round at Sherlock, eyes wide with fear and he trembled, fighting back tears as he realised just a dream could reduce him to this, even with Sherlock back. Sherlock looked at him, honest genuine concern radiating through him as he pulled John into a cuddle.

"It's okay, John it's just a dream." He muttered soothingly into John's ear as John's breathing began to even and muscles began to relax.

Eventually John looked up into Sherlock's face, steadying his voice to speak. "I'm sorry about that, I didn't mean to wake you too."

"John, why the hell are you apologising? I know you were dreaming at least partially about me, you said my name," John tensed in his arms, "it doesn't take a genius to work that out. And it is I who apologises to you, again, for what I did."

John relaxed again. When he spoke, it was with the voice of a man who didn't know what to do. "I just feel so broken." He confessed. "But it's better with you here."

They lay in silence for a few minutes more until John pulled himself up, taking a deep breath and gaining his composure. "There's no way I'll be able to sleep again. Tea?" Sherlock nodded and John picked up his dressing gown and walked out the room.

When Sherlock joined him down in the kitchen John was leaning up against the side, waiting for the kettle to boil. He was tense, his eyebrows furrowing in the middle and his eyes closed. Sherlock moved across the room, going to sit at the table, waiting silently as John poured out the tea and came to sit opposite him. There was an odd tension in the air as they sat there, John trying to shake off his nightmares and Sherlock watching him, the way his hand curled round the cup to stay steady and the way his breathing was not quite steady and the furrow In his brow as his body struggled to completely relax. It was obvious to Sherlock that John's nightmares were all consuming, they left him somehow insubstantial, and he knew that he wanted to be able to help John in any way possible.

"Do you want to talk? About the nightmares?" _Damn, was that too blunt?_

"I, er… Possibly, I don't know." He took a sip of tea. "My therapist says I need to talk about them but I find it hard to spend time putting them into words in the day, I don't know how to explain it."

Sherlock understood. "They dominate so much of your time at night you don't want to have to give any time to them during the day."

"Yes, I, wow I hadn't thought about it like that. But you're exactly right." John looked at him, face open and honest and showing a hint of what Sherlock liked to think of as awe.

"Always the tone of surprise. I am a genius."

John's face lit up with a smile at that, "Yes, yes you are."

They sat in silence and downed their cups before Sherlock spoke again. "I'm going to go and look at some of those case files." He moved into the other room and stretched out on the sofa reading. John pottered around the kitchen, getting himself breakfast and then going to sit at the table in the living room, pulling out the computer and looking at his emails. Sherlock became distracted at the tapping of the keys (excruciatingly slow), and turned to watching John instead. _This is becoming my new favourite hobby_. His thoughts flew back to that night, over 9 months ago, when Molly Hooper had said so openly "_You can have me_." Back then Sherlock had not understood her willingness, her ability to give up all thought of self to help someone who was likely to never appreciate you back with the same level of empathy. But sitting here, looking at John reduced so easily by terrors in the night he decided that now he could understand, because the brilliant man in front of him, the loyal loving army doctor who suffered so badly didn't deserve any pain at all, and Sherlock was surprised to feel that in fact he himself would be willing to do anything to stop John's pain. _He really can have me, if he wants me. I'll let him to anything._

o0o

The day passed quite quickly, John pottered around while Sherlock worked his way slowly but surely through the box of files. Occasionally he would pull out his phone and ring Lestrade, asking for extra details. A lot of the day he stood at the window, playing his violin and staring out with pale eyes, deep in thought.

John enjoyed being back in the same room with Sherlock. One might think that after such a long absence he would feel claustrophobic with someone once again taking up so much space but John felt entirely relaxed. Also, having Sherlock talk out loud about murder theories felt familiar, and when he was playing at the window John allowed himself to enjoy it.

It was evening when the call came. They had just finished dinner when Sherlock's phone rang, it was Lestrade asking him to come and look at a string of high robberies. Sherlock put the phone down and looked at John. "This is the sixth high profile robbery in the past month in Westminster. Lestrade has request I go and take a look at the scene, apparently there were some interesting clues left." He took a breath. "You in?"

"Of course." There was a flash of triumph in Sherlock's eyes as John ran to get his coat and before he knew it they were climbing out of a taxi to one of the tallest apartment blocks in the area. Sherlock strolled into the extravagant glass entrance and John marched after him as they travelled up to the fourth floor.

Inside Lestrade briefed them. All of the robberies happened when the resident of the houses were asleep in bed, all of them resulted in some of the resident's most sentimentally precious objects being taken and all of them ended with a single red button being left behind.

Sherlock swept around the scene, muttering deductions as John watched, enthralled once again. John had missed this, the mystery of it, the intrigue. After about 20 minutes Sherlock strode out of the bedroom and over to where Lestrade was standing.

"Okay, the windows in the bedroom show signs of being broken into, the dust has been disturbed in the past 24 hours, but none of the rest of the house does, this means the intruder knew the house well, or at least the victim's bedroom well, to have traversed it safely in the dark without waking them, also the criminal knows what possessions the victims are sentimentally attached to. This significantly narrows the field. From the photographs of the other scenes you've showed me a similar set up seems to have taken place, so we're looking for anything, specifically anyone, who might link these people. Check family record and friends, me and John will work on the other side of this case."

"What other side?"

"The Buttons."

An hour later they were standing by warehouses in London's docklands, as Sherlock strode around from door to door. Eventually they entered into a warehouse which now looks like it's being used as an overnight stop for goods to be transported to the continent. Sherlock strode through the boxes of English china and Luxury soap brands to the back, where he kicked through an old wooden door into a room that looking like it hadn't been used for at least 40 years. Apart from, John noted, the obvious footsteps along the middle of the floor and the disturbed objects on one of the middle desks, the was a collection of small office desks covered in piles of papers that were caked in 40 years of dust.

"Forty-three."

"Hmm?" John enquired.

"It's forty three years exactly since this room was last used for working in. All of the files are dated but they were dropped in mid-work so something significant must have happened here." He looked across at John. "Yes I will explain why we're here." He strolled across to the back of the room and opened a cupboard, pulling out a box that contained red buttons! Sherlock strode across the room and sat down on one of the dusty chairs.

"Sit John, we may be awhile." John sat and Sherlock looked across at him. "This is an old clothes manufacturing factory. During the feminist movement in the 60s this particular warehouse became famous for it's coats, in particular one brand of red coat. These buttons are of that make. This is one of the fashion research rooms where they used to plan the next fashion hits or whatever it is that people in fashion do, however the pathway to the cupboard has been in regular use over the past month and many of these buttons have been removed, ending up in the murderer's houses."

"But why?"

"I have my suspicions, but I'm waiting on Lestrade for that information. In the meantime we should wait, I have no doubt that the culprit will return in the next few hours to collect more, and I'd rather like to be here to meet him."

"Will that be dangerous?"

Sherlock relaxed and smiled. "Of course it will." He pulled John's gun out of his pocket and slid it across to him. John smiled, still amazed that after all these months Sherlock knew him this well.

By the time they heard movement in the warehouse John's legs had gone stiff. Sherlock stood up and edged over to the door, John moving to mirror him on the other side, waiting patiently. They pressed back against the wall so when a small figure in a black hooded coat ducked through the door and walked over to the cupboard they were able to shut the door before being noticed.

The intruder snapped round when hearing the door close, then quickly scanned the bare walls for a sign of escape, though the door was the only way in or out. Sherlock moved to stand in front of the door and John stayed steady, had on his gun. The figure stood straight and faced them, hands behind her back, and in the dim light John registered that the intruder was a young Indian woman.

"So just out of curiosity, why the Buttons?"

"Oh Mr Sherlock Holmes I've been warned about you." Her voice had lost most of it's accent, it's clear she'd lived in the country for significant amounts of time. "I'm sure, if what I've heard is correct, that you can tell me that yourself."

Sherlock smiled, John wanted to punch him for being flattered at a time like this. "Well now, I'd say this is a family thing, as these always are. You weren't born in this country although you were accustomed with regular trips here and so when you moved her at the age of, I'd say 17, you were well accustomed with British life and so quickly fitted in. This whole thing links back to your childhood, you lost your mother early due to her catching disease from working in sweatshops. Am I correct?"

"Yes Mr Holmes, you are." The intruder smiled, it was oddly unsettling. It was as if she knew something they didn't. At that moment Sherlock's phone rang, and he took it out his pocket and put it to his ear, greeting Lestrade and never taking his eyes off the young woman. Suddenly, her hands came around the front of her body holding a phone herself, and she smiled again, bracing her body.

The door behind them flew open and Sherlock was knocked to the ground, mid-greeting. He quickly scrambled up again, shouting to Lestrade to get people here now. Meanwhile, a short man barged through the door and the young woman flew to the exit and out the door. The man steadied himself and turned to leave but John caught him around the back of the head with one punch and he was on the floor, out cold. John the turned and ran after the girl. She dodged and weaved out of the warehouse and out across to the edge of the docks. John ran after her and was starting to gain when she reached the water's edge, stopping momentarily before diving into the dark water. John considered going in after her but it was dark and cold and he would freeze to death in minutes after the recent cold weather. _She must be mental, only an idiot would dive in there. _

As if on queue Sherlock came barrelling around the corner, throwing off his coat and diving headfirst in after her. John stood there in utter shock watching as he quickly caught up with her as she tried to swim to the right to a little boat waiting in the water. He caught her briefly, there was a brief couple of seconds of struggling and splashing, and he turned in the water straight towards the nearest ladder, letting her go. She reached the boat and toppled in just as John reached the top of the ladder Sherlock was climbing, throwing a hand down to pull him up.

Sherlock was freezing, his whole body soaked. As he pulled himself out his body started shuddering violently and he collapsed to his knees, letting a mobile, some buttons, a memory stick and a little blue case fall out of his hand. John grabbed his coat and wrapped it around him as Sherlock drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them.

"T-that was inter-resting." He said through chattering teeth.

"For god's sake Sherlock you idiot! I do not want you to die of pneumonia! Don't do that again!"

"Oh calm d-down. Lestrade's on h-his way with an ambulance, I'm p-p-pretty sure the adrenaline will keep me going for a few min-nutes. I give it 90 seconds before they app-ppear."

"You're still an idiot."

John crouched down next to Sherlock, tucking his coat in around him to keep the warmth. He rubbed his hand up and down Sherlock's arm to keep it warm and with the other hand he flicked Sherlock's sopping hair up out of his face. Sherlock looked up at him with cold, steel-grey eyes and smiled through the chattering and shivering. John felt himself smiling too at the adrenaline rush he hadn't felt in months and before he knew it they were both laughing loudly, gasping for breath. When he started to calm down John looked Sherlock straight in the eye.

"I've missed this."

"I know." Sherlock said simply.

"Oi! What the hell is going on?" Lestrade came striding towards them with paramedics. Sherlock was bundled into the back of an ambulance and John told them to return to the warehouse to look around and recover the body of the unconscious man. The police set to work and before long the area was a hive of activity.

It didn't take long before Sherlock was bored and irritated by being cared for. They'd taken his soaked coat and Jacket off him, giving him a towel and several jumpers to wrap in and a new pair of warm socks to stop circulation problems in his feet. He groaned loudly and stood up.

"Can we carry on n-now?"

The paramedic and Lestrade shared a glance.

"Sherlock, you've caught the criminal for me and the team has plenty to be working on while you recover. And don't argue, you need to go to a hospital for a check up, god knows what was lurking in that water."

Sherlock looked horrified. "I d-don't need to go to hospital, I'm fine! I won't be idiot enough to ignore any signs of I do g-get ill, if you won't let me carry on investing-gating at least let me go home!"

"It isn't safe to let you go home like this, you might not recognise the signs, you need a doctor."

"I have a doctor!" He pointed a John and John tried not to smile.

"It's okay," John said, "I'll make sure he doesn't die."

"Are you sure?" Said Lestrade, concern in his voice.

"Positively. Come along John!" Said Sherlock, throwing off the towels and picking up his coat before marching away. John jogged up after him and then walked side by side as they strolled through the docks towards the town, there Sherlock worked his magic and hailed a taxi out of nowhere.

In the back of the taxi John looked over at him. "I know you hate lingering at the aftermath of scenes like that but you know you do need to be careful. You could seriously get ill. You really do need medical attention to make sure that hasn't caused any damage."

Sherlock looked at him. "Look after me then doctor" he said in a low voice, smiling.

A shiver ran down John's spine at the words and he didn't really know how to respond properly, Sherlock's eyes staring him down. He turned his head away, not trusting himself to open his mouth until they got home. Sherlock stared, fascinated by the effect those words seem to have created.


	4. Chapter 4

**Part 4**

By the time they got home it was clear to John that Sherlock needed every ounce of warmth he could get. The man had been insistent that he was fine and he didn't need babying and now he was shivering all over, teeth chattering and lips turning blue. John led him upstairs and told him to go change into something warm and dry.

Once Sherlock closed the door to his bedroom John leant against the kitchen table and let out a slow exhale. The adrenaline rush he was coming down from had felt wonderful, it filled him with that brilliant combination of excitement and terror he hadn't felt since before Sherlock left. Then Sherlock's confidence in John's ability to look after him and the close physical proximity he'd developed with Sherlock recently had him struggling to control himself when Sherlock had thrown out that statement in the taxi. _"Then look after me Doctor."_ It had taken all his self control not to throw himself at the damn man right there and then. No matter how he looked at it John thought it inappropriate to be so completely turned on by someone who is trying to avoid catching pneumonia, even if they had been getting closer recently. Not to mention that he left uncomfortable by how much Sherlock was starting to dominate his life. The return of the adrenaline only made it clearer that without Sherlock, John was hardly living his life at all. _It's like he's my heart, and I'm not whole without him_. John shifted, going to his bedroom to fetch blankets.

When he got down Sherlock was curled, half-lying half-sitting, up one end of the sofa. John thought he'd object but Sherlock didn't protest when John wrapped him in layers of soft fabric. John sat down next to him, intending to ask if he'd worked the case out yet, but as soon as his backside hit the cushions Sherlock reached over and pulled him into a tight hug, pulling John down under the extra layers as well.

"Sherlock, what, why?"

"I am currently incapable of producing sufficient body warmth, therefore I'm stealing yours. Don't look so alarmed, I steal your laptop all the time." He clamped his arms around John and buried his head into John's neck, almost underneath him. John lay there on his side between Sherlock and the back of the sofa, uncomfortable and unable to relax. Sherlock's body was cold and he was acutely aware of it pressing against him the entire length of his body, from the cold feet he could feel through his own socks to the head curled under his own. John tilted backwards and looked up at the ceiling, dark curls ticking his neck as he moved. He tried to keep his mind empty and away from anything but innocent thoughts. Sherlock's cold hand drifted up and cupped round John's exposed neck, taking it's warmth and making John shiver. The other side of his head Sherlock's lips press over so lightly against John's collarbone and that set's John's imagination reeling, thoughts flying back to the taxi and to how close Sherlock is to him now.

Sherlock sensed the sudden tension and rise in temperature in John's body, how could he miss it? He smiled against John's neck as it proved his earlier theory that John really does enjoy being close to him. Sherlock pulled back and his hand slid up to cup John's face, guiding it down so that they were face to face. John's breathing was ragged and his eyes were wide, pulled to focus on Sherlock's. They lay there in silence momentarily, faces inches away. Sherlock's thoughts swirled around his pleasure at being home again and how much he enjoys being with John like this, breathing in his warm home-like smell and wondering what it might be like to explore this further. Since that first day, those first kisses, all they'd really done is cuddle. Occasionally there was the odd kiss to the neck or the back of the head but it was always part of the cuddling, and always subdued and comforting. Now he was eager to explore, eager for more.

John's head wasn't capable of that level of rational though at that particular moment, every breath he took was filled with Sherlock, all he could feel was the now-warming body against him, all he could see were those piercing multi-coloured eyes, staring with intensity into his own. All he knew was that at this moment he wanted this man and wanted him badly.

Sherlock was the first to move, leaning in slowly, and John saw the invitation and brought their mouths crashing together. It was awkward and desperate at first, both men just going for it and not really considering words as long as "technique". Their open months moved against each other, pushing and pulling and taking and giving. After a while they broke for breath, both panting, and then they came together again with a little more control. John shifted so he was lying mostly over Sherlock, weight propped on his arms either side of Sherlock's head and one leg between Sherlock's own. Sherlock shifted flat on his back, bringing his hands up placing them on John's back.

As they moved round the kisses deepened, the new position allowing them closer, pressing against each other along the lengths of their bodies. John pressed his mouth down onto Sherlock's, kissing fiercely. Slowly but surely, their bodies began to move against each others, rocking together. Suddenly, Sherlock tensed under John, pulling his head sideways and breaking their mouths apart, both of them panting.

"John, John I…" he said breathlessly.

"Sherlock? what's wrong?" John frowned, concerned.

Sherlock paused, looking uncomfortable and a little embarrassed. "Too fast. I, I'm a little new to this." John slid round to lie beside him again, feeling more than slightly self-conscious.

"Was I, was that too much? I thought, I mean. I thought that's what you wanted?"

Sherlock brought his head round to look at John again, his eyes uncharacteristically soft. "I do, I do want this, I just didn't anticipate the speed with which we would proceed. As I just stated, I'm a little new to this." He huffed, turning to stare up at the ceiling.

"What do you define as "this"? I remember Mycroft implying you were a virgin but its not exactly something we've ever discussed is it?"

"Up until I returned we didn't need to talk about it did we?" John looked at him, not really sure what to say to that. Sherlock retuned to a clinical tone. "Having a personality like me it is not easy to attract the opposite sex. Now I am perfectly capable of "turning on the charm", as you earlier called it, but not being myself is something that has taken many years of practice. My teenage years were somewhat difficult."

John smiled at the thought of an awkward teenage Sherlock, eager to assert himself intellectually and completely neglecting social skills. "I can imagine. So what, no experience whatsoever?"

"There were a couple of girls that showed interest in me, I've had a couple of "snogs round the back of the bike shed", as it were, but I was never capable of sustaining a relationship. After I reached university and found a direction in which I could take my life, it seemed rather irrelevant." He still looked at the ceiling, determinedly avoiding John's eye contact. John felt really rather sorry for him, getting to this age and never having experienced physical relationships. He placed his head down on Sherlock's shoulder, his hand resting across Sherlock's chest, feeling his elevated heart rate through the thin fabric of his t-shirt.

"But it's relevant now."

"Yes John, I suppose it is. It wasn't that we've done anything scandalous tonight but I, John I really care about you. I think that made it feel more intense than I was anticipating."

"I agree with that, it was, wow." He took a deep breath. "So what do you want to do now?"

"I don't know." Sherlock looked utterly frustrated with himself. "I know that I want you, emotionally and physically, but I also feel reluctant to indulge in case it is too intense for me. As well as this, I feel it unfair to kiss you like this and then tell you to stop. I don't have to be a genius to work out that you are more than just willing to be physically involved with me and allowing and then deny you just isn't fair."

John sighed, finally understanding. "I won't push you into doing anything you don't want to do." _But how far do I want to go? _He thought to himself. His earlier resolution if not touching Sherlock for fear of his heart being damaged again was truly in tatters, now he had a taste of Sherlock all he wanted was more, but he wouldn't push Sherlock, not if there was a chance of scaring him away.

"You're being awfully considerate seeing that I'm the one that abandoned you. I should be the one making it up to you." He paused. "If physicality is something you want, I'd be willing to push my boundaries to-"

"Sherlock stop. I do not want pity sex. I won't do anything unless you are totally comfortable with it." He looked into Sherlock's eyes. "And don't tell me you're ready before you really are for the sake of pleasing me."

Sherlock sighed, he was backed into a corner. If he said he was ready John wouldn't believe him, so he'd have to wait. "Well in that case, being as late as it is, I suggest we go up to bed and just… see where this goes."

John smiled.

o0o

Ten minutes later they were lying in bed, exploratory kisses passing between them. John was lying mostly on his back as Sherlock's hands explored over him. Sherlock has asked to be in control so John had given in, letting Sherlock explore his neck, chest and arms with his fingers, and occasionally his mouth. Though he did want more, John was perfectly content to give Sherlock his way, satisfied with the promise of more when Sherlock was up for it. One downside to this leisurely pace though was that the lateness of the hour began to catch up with him. John yawned loudly.

"Shall I stop?" Sherlock quizzed. He looked over at the clock and slid up to face John. "I suppose it is late."

"You don't have to stop, believe me it's not that I'm not enjoying it."

"I know, but we can carry this on another day."

"Hmm, I fully intend to. But if the offer's there, I think I do need sleep."

"Oh course you do. It's been a long day." Sherlock slipped his arms round John and closed his eyes which John took as an invitation to close his own eyes, within minutes falling softly to sleep.

o0o

The next morning John was barely awake before Sherlock was whisking him off to the yard to look at the evidence collected from the night before. He strode around the offices in his long coat and scarf, looking confident, happy and totally in his element as he muttered theories under his breath and barked questions at those around him, eyes flicking to John throughout. John was quite content after all that time to just sit and watch as Sherlock put his brain to work. After a couple of hours Sherlock stopped, dropping his folders dramatically on the table and announcing "I'm getting it. Oh this is a good one."

Lestrade looked up at him expectantly.

"The only connection your teams found between the victims was that they all had family members involved in the fashion industry. Now the woman we met last night clearly was from an Indian family. She as much as told me her mother had died early from work in sweatshops making clothes. Now, we switch back to the factory, it was famous for the coats it made, however after the gas leak near the factory 43 years ago the area was deemed unsafe for months and so production of the coats it made was outsourced to a contractor, one in India. Now as always it was supposed to be made under perfectly sanitary conditions however I think the pressures of fashion may well have caused the owners to outsource to sweatshops.

"The motive now seems obvious yes? The woman wanted to avenge her mother from the criminal members of the industry that resorted to cheap labour and caused her death. But this goes much deeper than that. One woman travelling all the way across the world, planning out almost her whole life to get back at the completely oblivious children of people who probably had no idea what their business deals would lead to? No it goes much, much deeper. She obviously had associates, the man at the dock for one. Once he regains consciousness in hospital I'd quite like to hear what he has to say. Might take a while though, John did give him quite a bash. Concussion like that will take a while to subside."

"So what, we're looking at an Indian gang involved in revenge for those who died in bad conditions at work, due to the need for cheap labour?" Lestrade looked disbelieving.

"A crime in high fashion indeed. Neat." Sherlock smiled.

"Okay. Are we done here? All I've eaten today is one slice of toast." John stood up and grabbed his coat. Sherlock stood to join him immediately, causing John to pause and look up at him, a shiver running down his spine. "Someone's keen." Sherlock smiled at him again, putting his hand up to John's shoulder and steering him out of the door.

Sherlock was unusually chatty and animated on the way home, discussing everything from the finer point of the case to whispering in John's ear about the cabbie's ex-wife. It was light hearted and fun and John couldn't help but laugh and smile along. His thoughts drifting back to the night before. Really, it was astounding how many moods Sherlock could swing through, from the passionate study of John the night before to the dark moods he often fell into to the fun, laughing man with him now.


	5. Chapter 5

**PART 5 **

When they got home John went straight up to the kitchen, grabbed himself a sandwich and sat at the table, Sherlock came in slightly after, coat and scarf discarded, and sat opposite John to watch him eat.

"You know," John said between mouthfuls, "It's really off-putting to be watched whilst you eat."

"Relax, you're doing fine."

"Oh really?"

"Yes. Hurry up and finish, it's harder to monologue at you when you're eating."

"Oh. Great. Lovely." He fell silent and ate quickly, trying not to look like he was doing it to appease Sherlock.

"You know," Sherlock said as John was eating, "I've realised over the past few days how much I have come to rely on you." He spoke whilst staring at the opposite wall, not looking at John directly (Who was staring at him now, food forgotten). "The contrast between being away and being back here with you, it's startling. The crimes make life fun but they don't feel right without you. Not to mention the physical side we've developed."

He fell silent and John didn't know what so say. Awkward silence fell as they both contemplated that revelation.

"Well, you managed that monologue without me."

"That was far too short to be a monologue, and it wasn't directed at an audience, so it's more of a soliloquy." The silence held for a couple of seconds, and then they burst out laughing. John finished his sandwich and looked up at Sherlock again.

"So, crime?"

"Yes John, crime." He just looked at John, not elaborating.

"Weren't you going to monologue at me about crime?"

"I was but you're too distracting, you need to stop."

"Stop what exactly?"

"Oh for god's sake." He got up and strode round the table, bending down and kissing John solidly. John froze for a moment, then relaxed again. He pulled away, got up and put his empty plate in the sink. Sherlock tutted at that; came up behind John and pressed against him, putting him arms round John's, grabbing his hands. He spun John round and pressed him back against the side, bending down to kiss him again.

John's mouth fell open willingly and he let Sherlock take the lead as the genius explored the way around his mouth, soft and gentle at first but with increasing urgency. Sherlock's body was still pressed up against him, their weight both leant on the sideboard through John. John's hands fell to the side to support their weight more and Sherlock lifted his fingers up to wrap around the back of John's head, pulling them tighter together.

They stood together in silence for a couple of minutes, enjoying the increasing heat, before John broke away, his head pulling sideways, breathing heavily.

"At this rate I'm going to have a permanent dent in my arse from the side."

"Do you need me to kiss it better?" Sherlock smiled.

John's mouth fell open momentarily before twisting into a smile. "You're insufferable!" he exclaimed and pulled Sherlock down into kiss again. They carried on for a few moments before Sherlock grabbed John's hand and pulled him away from the side, moving through the door into Sherlock's bedroom. It still felt somewhat empty and stale inside, what with Sherlock having started sleeping up in John's room, but it was closest, and that was the big decider.

Sherlock pushed John down back on the bed, climbing to lay next to him. He took John's mouth to his own again, kissing lightly before nibbling at John's lower lip and then pushing in further, they kissed with open mouths, enjoying the shared sense of connection. After a while Sherlock moved down to kiss along John's jaw line, leaving a gentle ticking sensation behind him, working his way down to John's neck where he kissed harder. John hummed appreciatively.

"Now", Sherlock whispered into John's ear, causing shivers down the other man's spine, "Where did I get to last night?"

He pulled away slightly, allowing John to sit up and pull his jumper and t-shirt off, Sherlock stopping to discard his jacket. Sherlock carefully brought his attention back to John's neck, kissing his way around and up to nibble his ear, hands roaming over John's chest. John himself brought his hands up to Sherlock's shirt, slowly undoing the buttons and sliding his own hands over Sherlock's chest, feeling the smooth pale skin under his hand for the first time. He ran a thumb over Sherlock's nipple and felt the gasp against his ear.

It wasn't long before Sherlock replicated the move. John arched off the bed at the contact and Sherlock slid down to bring his mouth to John's nipple. They both hummed along again and Sherlock continued to explore over all available skin with his other hand. Eventually, their bodies starting to rock together, slowly at first and then faster. John's hand moved to tangle in Sherlock's hair. John's breath grew unsteady, and soon there was a pretty obvious sign between them of how much he was enjoying it. John hesitated, remembering how Sherlock had pulled away last time things got heated.

"Sherlock, I want to, shit, can I…?"

Sherlock smiled, reading the doubt in John's face and voice. He reached a hand down and palmed John's trousers, "Yes John?"

"Are you sure you want to- Ah! You don't have t-"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and lifted off John slightly, allowing him to move again. "Shut up and lift so I can take your trousers off."

With hands as deft as ever Sherlock undid John's trousers and in one swift motion dragged them and his underwear down past John's knees. Without hesitation he moved up to kiss John's mouth again and asked "Can I proceed with the exploration?"

"I think I'm past stopping you, just, just-"

Sherlock kissed him again to stop his words and moved his hand down, stroking John's length and making him gasp. He travelled down John's chest with his mouth and other hand, finding the spots that made his partner gasp or shudder. He moved to stroke around John's thigh and kiss around his hips. Sherlock looked up at John one last time and brought his mouth to John's erection, wrapping his hand around the base.

John released a string of profanities as Sherlock kissed and licked along his length, struggling not to arch his hips up when Sherlock eventually took him in his mouth. He mentally cursed Sherlock's ridiculous ability to be brilliant at everything, but was unable to fluently communicate it past more than a moan. Sherlock gradually got faster and faster, playing with his tongue and his hands consistently, watching with his usual level of perception what movements got which reactions from his partner. John's moans increased in frequency as he gradually got closer to the edge, losing all sense of self-consciousness with it too.

"Sher- I'm going- Ah! I'm going to-" John looked down, his face flushed. Sherlock peered up at him from beneath dark curls and smiled against him, which was enough to push John over the edge. He shuddered violently, crying out, and then slumped back against the pillow. Sherlock screwed his face up, but swallowed down anyway. He moved off John and sat up on the edge of the bed, a frown growing on his face as he snapped back to his usual calm self.

John's head started to clear, and he slowly became more and more self conscious, lying on the bed with his trousers round his ankles with a quite put-out Sherlock sat next to him, whose attention was clearly elsewhere.

"Are you alright?" He said, through the post-coital haze.

Sherlock sighed, "I'm going to get a drink" he said, walking out of the room towards the kitchen.

John pulled his pants and trousers back up and swung his legs round to sit at the edge of the bed. Sherlock came back in, still shirtless, holding a drink in his hand.

"As much as I've heard it's upsetting to insult one's partner after sex, that tasted vile."

John frowned, "You know, you didn't have to-"

"Oh shut up, you think I would have done it if I hadn't wanted to?" Sherlock sat down on the bed next to him. "You were too distracting, how am I supposed to piece together a case when I'm that curious about you in bed? Now I know, and I can resume thinking about the case."

Understanding dawned on John's face, and he looked wholly put out. "So what, that was just an excuse for you to clear your head?" He glanced down at Sherlock's trousers. "Did that not turn you on at all?"

"Oh don't worry about that, I was thoroughly enjoying myself, but as I said I think I may have discovered one of my least favourite flavours - enough to bring anyone's thoughts back to earth." He glanced over at John's face again, reading that he hadn't quite supplied a reasonable explanation yet. "And yes, it did hold an emotional weight for me, which I no doubt will think and reflect upon a great deal later, but for now my curiosity has been sated and I am free to think again. And though I may do at some point, I do not currently require reciprocation."

John looked a little relieved, but then frowned again. "Surely giving you more, uh, data, will give you more not less to think about?"

"Owning and processing are two different things. I was desperate to own but now I can process at leisure."

"Uh… I think I get that. Maybe. Actually not at all."

Sherlock smiled. "I do care about you, and seeing you like that was amazing, I just don't like the taste of semen. Appropriate summary?"

John's relaxed and he laughed. "That will do." He stood up and grabbed his shirt, putting it back on again. Sherlock strode over to his wardrobe and pulled out a clean shirt, then pulled it on as he strode out of the bedroom. John wandered into the kitchen and put the kettle on. He made tea and then went into the living room, yawning. Sherlock was up one end of the sofa and motioned for John to join him. As they curled up together John yawned again.

"Sleep John, enjoy the post-coital chemicals." Sherlock said, putting his arm round him.

"Mm-kay." John mumbled, relaxing his body. "Won't I disturb your thinking?"

"No. Sleep."

"'Kay."

o0o

"_**Ring! Ring!"**_

The jolt of the phone going and the movement of Sherlock from beside him snapped John back into consciousness. He'd been sleeping quite deeply laid out on the sofa and he pulled himself up, fuzzy-eyed, to watch Sherlock answering the phone.

"Lestrade. Yes. Good! Can I see him? Which ward? Okay, I'll be over in a few minutes." He put down the phone, face lit up, turning to John. "The man from the docks has regained consciousness, he's being questioned by the police now. Lestrade says in roughly 25 minutes time he can give me 5 minutes with the man, I'm sure it will be sufficient."

John yawned. "What's the time?"

"Just gone seven."

"Again with the evening adventures." He yawned then stood up. "D'you want me to come?"

"Naturally." He looked John up and down. "Though I suggest you put your army training to use and have a quick shower. You look delightfully dishevelled but I'm not sure everyone else will appreciate it as much as I do."

John blushed as he walked towards the bathroom, trying to hide it. Not successfully though, as Sherlock's voice followed him out of the room - "You are allowed to feel flattered, that's what compliments are for."

Twenty three minutes later they stepped put of the taxi and Sherlock strolled into St. Barts hospital, bypassing the reception and heading straight up to the third floor where the "patient" was being held in a private room. Sitting on the plastic waiting chairs outside were a plethora of police officers.

"Oh, look who it is, back to rule over us again." Sally's voice rang out. John was pretty certain his blood boiled there and then on the spot. He'd caught sight of her from a distance at the Yard the day before but being face-to-face with the woman who helped sell Sherlock out and send him to his apparent-death made his skin crawl. He knew full well that she'd just been another victim of Moriarty's mind tricks but that doesn't mean he had to sympathise with her. Without her debunking Sherlock from working with the police he might have not had to resort to leaving.

Sherlock sensed the sudden rigidness in John and felt, quite unexpectedly, another pang of guilt for leaving him. _Emotions really do choose the most insufferable times to resurface_. He strode straight past Sally towards Lestrade, completely ignoring her instead of his usual tactic of throwing out an insult. John followed him, Sherlock exchanged a few short words with Lestrade and then turned to his partner.

"I'm afraid you can't come in with me. I'm going to try and spend as long in there as possible, and I'll need time to think afterwards." He paused for a moment. "Go down to the hospital restaurant, get yourself some food - neither of us have eaten. I'll come and sit with you after." He turned and strode into the patient room.

John stood looking a little lost for a moment before he picked himself up and turned round, walking down to the canteen. He got himself a bowl of pasta and turned to leave, accidentally bumping into a very startled looking Molly Hooper on her way in.

"Oh, hi! Uh, John what are you doing at the hospital? Oh no, is someone you know ill?" Her innocent face radiated concern. John froze, remembering that Sherlock hadn't announced his return to her yet. _How the hell am I supposed to break news to her like that? I have to say something though, Sherlock will come striding in here in a couple of minutes and I can't just let her find out that way!_ He ran a hand through his hair.

"Uh, no, no they aren't. Molly… Molly would you like to join me to sit and eat, so we can talk."

Her face slipped, alarm passing across it, and suddenly John found himself unable to make eye contact with her, she kept turning away. "No, it's fine, really, I was just going to pick myself up some coffee and go home. I hope why you're here is, um… successful."

She turned round and went to walk out the door, straight into Sherlock who was entering it.

The following was one of the most puzzling moments of John's life. He watched as both sets of eyes widened suddenly. Molly started to shake a little and her breathing stuttered as she stared up at Sherlock, and Sherlock looked down on her, a blank look on his face. His eyes flickered up to John and then back down to Molly again, a flash of concern appearing on his features. Then, he opened his mouth and said uncharacteristically softly to Molly, "I'm sorry."

Molly's mouth continued to flap open, stuttering but not forming words. John rushed forwards to try and help her, believing she was suffering from the same surprise he had. "Molly, are you alright? Believe me, he shocked us all."

She broke her stare at Sherlock and turned to look at John. "I, no, I just didn't know, I didn't know if I'd ever see him again."

Sherlock winced ever so slightly from behind her, but John didn't miss it. He reviewed that sentence. "What do you mean 'See him again'? Everyone thought he was de-" He looked between them again, understanding flooding through him. "You knew. You knew he wasn't dead." A range of emotions flashed through him. First shock and surprise, but then a wave of anger and sickening feeling of betrayal from both of the two figures in front of him. This was accompanied by renewed memories of the pain he had felt. John stiffened as emotion flooded through him internally and his pose became suddenly military, hiding all emotion or feeling. Inside he was in turmoil.

Molly's panic was more obvious now, her eyes flew around wildly. "Shit, John, I, I thought he'd have told you by now I was involved, I didn't realise, I mean, uh-" Molly looked up at Sherlock and burst into tears, pushing past him to get out of the room.

Sherlock looked down at John, for once in his life unable to think of the right words to say to fix the situation. Obviously he could tell the truth, but it wouldn't do anything to ease John's current discomfort. He was also wholly capable of inventing a convincing and comforting lie, but he couldn't factor in another moment like this, will someone ruining it for him. Also, after having one secret revealed and knowing it was hurting John he wasn't particularly keen on making another one. In the end he settled on the facts. "She was involved in helping me."

"Great Sherlock. Fine. Are you done here? I want to go home." John shifted slightly on his feet, but his body stayed mostly locked still. The flashes of anger appearing under his mask were formidable. John ached to get back to the flat, where he could be free to get emotional. He'd had months of practice of bottling things until he returned home, but this was different in his mind, he needed to get back to somewhere private before he said something regrettable to Sherlock.

"You haven't eaten any food." Sherlock pointed out, gesturing to the bowl now on the table beside them.

"I am not hungry." John's jaw was still clenched as he stood, eyes challenging. They locked eyes for a couple of moments before Sherlock backed down.

"Yes, I'm done here."

"Then we're going home." John marched out, following the corridors round in silence and not looking at Sherlock as he strode out and called a taxi. Neither man spoke on the journey home, the tense stony silence resonating from John was enough to keep Sherlock quiet. John's anger didn't abate, and though he wasn't looking every time he heard the rustle of Sherlock's clothing or his breathing he felt sick to the stomach again. He hadn't spoken to Molly regularly while Sherlock was away, but now the memories of the comfort he head received from her felt bitter as he thought of her lying to him. He felt betrayed by Sherlock as well. Though he'd said that John's grief was necessary while he was away, John had assumed that deception had applied to everyone else as well, but apparently not.

Sherlock sat in the cab on edge the entire way home. In all honesty he had intended to keep it quiet from John that anyone had helped him, knowing that John would feel betrayed at not being in on it if anyone else had been involved, being made to suffer when Molly, whom Sherlock knew John didn't believe he was close with, had been trusted to keep his secrets. Sherlock was quick to open the door for him when they got home, then stopping to make John tea. John went and sat in his armchair and after bringing the tea in Sherlock stood awkwardly, debating with himself internally for a few minutes before speaking.

"John."

Still staring straight ahead, John said "Yes Sherlock?"

"I couldn't have done it without her. It was necessary."

"I know that. You wouldn't have included her otherwise."

"Exactly." The tension in the air was thick like smoke. Sherlock continued to stand for a few moments before doing the most honest thing he was able to, the clearest way in his eyes to ease John's pain. He knelt down by John's armchair, down to his level. John looked around and Sherlock stared into his eyes, wearing the most humble face he could.

"I'm sorry John. Molly wouldn't have been a suspect, and I needed her. She kept quiet at my request, because it was necessary. I have not had the chance to speak with her since I returned and I'm really sorry that you had to find out this way."

John's face stayed expressionless, but his voice was a little cracked. "I know you Sherlock Holmes. You hadn't intended to tell me she had been involved at all had you?"

"I - No. I hadn't. I thought it would hurt you. Evidently I was right."

John's eyes narrowed and Sherlock's winced, immediately noting the wrong choice of words. "You can't turn it off at all, can you? Yes, I am hurt, but more than that I'm angry, Sherlock, and you're really not very good at soothing that." He stood up. "I'm going to bed."

"Please John, tell me what's going through your head, what I can do to help you."

"What, like you did?" He turned and walked up the stairs, leaving Sherlock kneeling feeling useless in the middle of the living room.

That night, for the first time since returning, Sherlock slept on his own.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6** - I know! I know! It's late and short. I'm sorry I haven't updated in so long. Life and other fandoms have robbed me of my interest in this, but I'm determined I shall finish it. Please just don't hold your breath for chapter updates. And thank you, truly, for all the support I've been given for this.

* * *

><p>When Sherlock came into the kitchen the next morning John was already in the living room, sat on the sofa with his laptop. Unsure where he stood, Sherlock made them both tea, went and put the mug next to John and when he received no reaction went back into the kitchen to work on the case. He was busy mentally replaying the interview with the man from the docks when John came into the kitchen and subsequently Sherlock didn't notice him until John put a hand on his shoulder, causing him to jump and snap out of his thoughts.<p>

"John?"

"Did you get anything interesting from the man you interviewed last night?" John said calmly, his voice clear from emotion.

"Yes actually, the evidence he gave was incredibly interesting, even if he didn't directly answer any questions. It's marvellously helpful in piecing things together."

"That's good." John hesitated for a few moments. "Sherlock I'm going to visit Harry today. I'll be back late. I may even stay over, depending on how she is." He took his hand from Sherlock's shoulder and went to go upstairs. Sherlock recognised John's need to distance himself but it didn't stop him feeling another pang of regret, he sat silently as he watched John walk through the kitchen door.

As John moved about upstairs Sherlock's thoughts drifted around ways to make it up to John, other ways to atone for the pain he had caused. Unlike most people chose to believe Sherlock wasn't completely devoid of human emotion, after watching John in the few days since returning he had fully realised the enormity of the effect he'd had on John's life and he understood that the effects of his actions would be felt for a long time to come, that he'd need to be there for John throughout that.

The question he now struggled with however was exactly how to make it up to John. He'd shown himself to be capable of physical affection, but the depth of emotional pain John suffered wasn't going to be solved through physical actions. Similarly, the easiest and far less painful method of showing he cared would be to try and help John with something he desired, such as paying for his sister to get a decent therapist and alcoholic recovery support. Sherlock was however acutely aware of how overwhelming John had found the past few days and was sure that if he started playing with John's life outside of 221B he would slowly but surely be suffocating the man of his freedom.

The best way to try and make it up to John, he concluded, was to open up to John and really show, through his actions and his words, that he was sorry. Sherlock was profoundly capable of expressing his emotions but he abhorred doing so, indulging in theatrical declarations when he could be doing something interesting, absorbing and intellectually stimulating. However, he had put John's life on hold for nine months and so it was ridiculous to shy away from something that could improve the man's life just because it made him feel awkward.

When John came downstairs, bag in hand, Sherlock was standing leant in the doorway to the kitchen. As he reached the bottom step Sherlock spoke, with an honesty and softness he rarely used.

"John, I hope Harry's doing well, I dislike seeing you upset because of her."

"Uh, thanks." He paused, then frowned. "You know Sherlock I may be an idiot by your standards but I am capable of seeing when you're trying to say sorry."

"I am aware, and I wanted to make it clear that I am. Sorry, that is." Sherlock writhed internally, cursing his awkward choice of wording. He stared at John's face for a reaction.

John's face softened slightly, then pulled back into a reserved, somewhat guarded expression. "I know you are, you've made that clear. It still doesn't make it any easier." He sighed. "I need the space and the time to think. I'll be back later." He turned and walked downstairs. Sherlock sighed at the sound of the front door clipping shut, and then he turned and went back to his case notes.

o0o

By about three o'clock in the afternoon John was ready to tear his hair out. After hearing about Sherlock's return Harry had ranted about the deception of the man and told John no less that four times that he shouldn't ever speak to his flatmate again. When John had finally got the message across that he wanted to talk about something different he'd been treated to inane gossip about who was dating who and why that lady at work's sudden holiday was dodgy and all manner of things that he really did not care about. John knew deep down that visiting his sister was never a good thing but he had hoped that it would be light relief in comparison to the tension at home. In reality it just left him more tired and stressed than ever. And before long he was almost longing for the soothing notes of Sherlock's violin to drift through the house.

He was however duty bound to hear his sister out and managed to stay throughout the afternoon, then volunteering to pay for a take-away and sitting with Harry through dinner until it was polite to leave.

When he walked into the flat he found a not on the kitchen table. "John, I've gone to chase up some leads about the case - SH". Sherlock would never have left a note to him before. It was even more overly cautious when John had said he might have stayed over, there may have been no one there to receive the note. Smiling somewhat at Sherlock's consideration, he went up to bed.

It was two am when he was woken by the phone.

o0o

The first thing Sherlock registered was how heavy he felt. Drug induced sleep then. He tried to move his limbs but they felt heavy, only able to twitch his fingers slightly. Immediately another hand came and gripped his fingers and a tentative voice called out for a nurse.

"Sherlock?" John's voice was soft but after sleeping to Sherlock it felt deafening. He took a deep breath and let his eyes flutter open, squinting to see. He was in a standard bed in a pretty standard hospital ward, John was in the chair next to his bed, sat forwards, hand intertwined in his and determinedly watching his face.

"Sherlock?" John's voice said more steadily. Sherlock tried to speak but his mouth wasn't working yet, so he gave John's hand a small squeeze to indicate he'd heard. With a Herculean effort he turned his head to look John in the face, eyes blinking and trying to adjust. Sherlock really hated waking up from drugs, despite the effects some of them may have…

Before he could try and speak again the nurse arrived, checking his vitals and shining light into his eyes. He protested as much as he could as his arms came slowly back to life, and he waved her away. "I'-" his voice cracked, "I'm fine, go away."

"You bloody well are not fine!" John insisted from beside him. "You were found unconscious in an alleyway bleeding from the head!" His face softened and he radiated concern. "What happened Sherlock?"

"I traced the gang to their hideout." Sherlock stated, trying to pull himself into a more sitting position. He reached and found the controls on his bed and pulled himself more upright.

"And you went in on your own? Sherlock are you insane, why didn't you wait for me to come with you?" John's voice was strained, it was obvious he was struggling to stay calm.

"You were angry with me. I didn't want to presume you'd come running, that would have been equally upsetting to you." He reached up and felt the bandage around his head, testing it. "How long was I out?"

"About 12 hours. It's just past midday. I was just so worried Sherlock."

He looked at John pointedly. "I'm fine." But he realised exactly what John's concerns were before he voiced them.

"But you might not have been!" John's voice was strained. "You could have bled out if you weren't found, you could have-" He cut himself off, unable to say the word "died". "I could have been left on my own again Sherlock. And I don't know how I'd -"

"John, don't dwell on it. I would have been fine if Lestrade hadn't of text me. I forgot to turn my phone off and it, uh, alerted them to my presence. It's not a mistake I shall be stupid enough to make again, that I'm sure of." Sherlock frowned at his own mistake.

"Don't do that to me again Sherlock." John said dangerously, hand squeezing Sherlock's.

"I won't, I promise. And I'm sorry."

"No, I'm sorry, for making you think it wasn't acceptable to take me with you." John squeezed his hand again. "I've already lost you once, no matter how angry I get please don't think I want to go through it again anytime soon."

"I know."

o0o

Initially the nurses protested at letting Sherlock home, but after he endured a lecture over the phone from Mycroft he handed the phone to a nurse and was discharged impressively quickly. John was quiet on the way home, not speaking much apart from answering basic questions directed to him.

When they arrived back at Baker street Sherlock pulled off his coat and strode into the kitchen, putting the kettle on. John laughed and went and sat on the sofa, letting out a huff. Sherlock put the tea down in front of him and sat on the other end of the sofa, noting immediately that John was struggling.

"Are you alright, John?" he asked tentatively.

"I'm fine. Christ, I should be the one comforting you, not the other way round, you could have, I mean, that really could have ended badly." He exhaled slowly, shaking slightly.

"It's no secret that I have a limited regard for danger John. Both of us know and share that." He said softly, moving closer.

"I know, it's just, after you've been gone, suddenly the danger feels far more real." He looked up at Sherlock's face, making the tears forming in the corner of his eyes visible. "I care about you, and I know it's stupid because you're not going to change your lifestyle because suddenly I get a little worried, but I still do." He paused a moment, then moved in to kiss Sherlock lightly on the lips to highlight his concern. Sherlock returned the kiss before pulling back.

"I do care about your concern John." Sherlock assured him.

"I know." John sat up and took a deep breath, shaking his shoulders slightly. "Now, enough emotion for one day, I'm sick of it god knows how you must feel."

Sherlock smirked. "I appreciate it. Now, do you want to know what I found out about the case before I was ambushed?"

"Please."

o0o

John only allowed Sherlock to stay up and work for a few hours that day before insisting he go to bed. Sherlock knew logically that with a head injury and sedatives still weaning their way out if his system it was just sensible but that didn't mean he had to like it. He made a fuss about going to bed but conceded defeat when John took him upstairs to his own bed and they climbed in together, falling asleep as if the past 48 hours hadn't occurred.


End file.
